by Rory Black
As his keen eyes studied the dancing braves he wondered if this unknown tribe would react in the same way that all of their brothers across the West acted.
Beads of sweat dripped from his long limp hair as he continued to move along the uneven and perilous pathway in the sky. He knew that if they caught sight of him, they would probably unleash their weaponry. He would be forced to start shooting and that troubled him.
‘This is gonna get mighty messy,’ he whispered under his breath as he peered down at the dancing figures around the fire. ‘I sure hope I’ve got enough bullets.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Had the petite female been conscious when her captors brought her to their stronghold she might have seen the sheet of polished metal hanging from the rocks. It resembled a Spanish breastplate but none of the isolated Indians knew how or why it had been suspended above the mouth of the cave they still used in their ancient rituals. Its surface reflected the light of their torches and campfire out into the desert. This was what had lured Sally as she had desperately tried to find a safe haven in the arid desert.
But she had not seen it or anything else after being hit by a warrior’s club. Now all she could do was fight to awaken from the perilous pit she helplessly found herself trapped within.
Countless demons taunted Squirrel Sally as she struggled against her bonds and sank deeper into the bottomless pools of a place that she had never travelled to before. Monsters swept through her mind and disappeared before she could confront them. Sally tried to lash out with her fists, but for some unknown reason, she was unable to move. Black ravens swooped through the confused haze that was her mind and pecked at her. She could feel her flesh being ripped from her bones and then she heard the constant beat of pounding hearts. Then she saw the tall lean figure watching her from the distance. It was Iron Eyes, but he was just watching her with glowing red eyes that burned the air. She could feel the heat burning into her. Sweat trailed down her face and burned her eyes, but she was unable to look away.
Sally wanted to reach out to the haunting man as a mysterious breeze caught the tails of his ragged trail coat and lifted his long black hair. She stared at him but he did not move a muscle. He, like her, seemed unable to move.
She screamed out but there was no sound.
The only noise came from the constant throbbing of a heartbeat that grew and grew until it became unbearable. Sally twisted and fought against whatever it was that was restraining her, but it was useless.
A panic rippled through her young body unlike anything she had ever experienced before. Then she heard chanting all around her. She tried to run but her legs seemed helpless and nailed to the ground. Flashes of bright crimson and the blackest of blacks pulsated inside her mind.
Sally looked to where the statuesque figure had been watching her, but he was gone. Iron Eyes was gone. A chilling terror swept through her as she suddenly realized that she was alone. Her eyes opened and she bellowed.
‘Iron Eyes,’ she yelled out before it dawned on her that everything that had tormented her dazed mind had only been a feverish dream. Her eyes looked all around and slowly began to adjust to the reality, which was far more nightmarish than anything her delirium had manufactured.
It might have been the constant drumming or the guttural chants which had finally brought the golden-haired female out of her unconsciousness. Whatever it was, it seemed unreal to the logically-minded Sally.
The light of the Indian campfire danced across the rocks above her as countless warriors moved between the roaring flames and where she was restrained.
Sally tried to move but it was impossible. Somehow she had been tied down on a flat rock. Her dazed mind attempted to work out what had happened to her and how she had ended up here in the middle of an Indian camp. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she simply could not figure any of it out.
The last thing she could recall was sitting on her high driver’s seat atop her stagecoach. She blinked hard and then realized that she was no longer whipping the backs of her team of black horses and thundering in pursuit of her beloved Iron Eyes.
The memory of the tall silent figure returned to her. Iron Eyes had only been part of the nightmarish vision which she had fought to escape.
She sighed dispiritedly. Where was Iron Eyes when she really needed him? The question burned like a branding iron in her young mind. Tears welled up in her beautiful eyes. Sally went to rub them away but her hands could not move. They were tied down to something she had yet to see or comprehend.
Just as in her nightmare, she was restrained.
Sally glanced at her left hand and saw the rawhide laces that had been lashed around her wrist. Blood trickled from the crude rawhide fastenings, showing that she had fought feverishly against her bonds while asleep. Slowly she began to become aware of what was happening and it troubled her. Sally had been in numerous scrapes since she had left home and decided to tag along with the fearsome bounty hunter, but nothing like this.
She blinked again but it did not stop the pain coming from the bruise on the back of her head hidden beneath her wild golden locks.
The dancing warriors, decorated in their feathered finery, drew her attention. They looked all fired up for something and she did not care to dwell on what that might be.
Her eyes slowly focused on the braves as they circled the campfire.
‘This ain’t good,’ she whispered to herself.
They were Indians OK, but unlike any she had ever seen or heard of in her short but eventful life. The dancers wore full head masks made of clay and their bodies were also covered in it. They did not look remotely human as they chanted and moved in laboured actions.
The horde of other Indians who watched the dancers perform their ritual appeared more normal, but even they were clad in unfamiliar dress.
Sweat trailed down from under her blonde tresses as the severity of her situation became more and more apparent. Sally was in trouble.
Big trouble.
Every ounce of her tiny form wanted to run for cover. Sally went to do exactly that when she felt her restraints holding her on the smooth flat rock. She wrestled furiously but then realized that not only her arms were tied, but also her legs. Pain traced up from her ankles as the rawhide cut into her skin.
Sally lay on her back and cursed silently.
She was totally helpless.
Spread-eagled like a sacrificial offering.
Her blue eyes flashed from side to side in a vain search for a way out of her present troubles. No matter where she looked, all she could see were the strangely-decorated braves who surrounded her.
Her mind tried to work out what had happened.
How did she get from the stagecoach to this place?
Yet no matter how hard she tried to remember, all she could recall was waking up here.
‘Where the hell am I?’ Sally yelled.
To her utter surprise, her innocent question echoed all around her. She began to realize that she was in the mouth of a cave close to the desolate desert sands. Sally’s eyes widened as she lay on her back straining at her shackles.
I gotta escape, she thought. But how?
The golden-haired youngster fought against her restraints until she was able to tuck her shoulder under her. Lying on her side, Sally stared out between the dancing warriors and caught sight of her team of six black horses. Behind the sturdy stagecoach team were countless painted ponies.
Thoughts of what these unknown people might do to her haunted Sally. They did not seem to have any guns or any of the things other tribes had gradually adopted from the relentless settlers who continued to move through the west. No rifles or metal knife blades and arrowheads. Sally lay on her back and pondered that simple fact.
Who were they?
She had encountered several different tribes since she had started to travel with the gaunt bounty hunter yet they all appeared to be far more superior compared to these Indians.
Her headache began to ease in defia
nce of the throbbing beat of the drums her captors kept striking. Her dazed mind began to understand her surroundings better as several of the older Indians walked toward her and pushed her head back against the stone slab.
Sally gritted her teeth and frowned at them.
‘You wouldn’t be so damn rough if I had my rifle,’ she snarled at them. ‘I could kill a dozen of you varmints before I had to reload.’
Then Sally considered how many Indians there actually were and it dawned on her that ten fully-loaded Winchesters would not be enough. There were just too many of them and that simple fact clawed at her craw.
She shook her head and her wavy hair rested on the smooth surface of the rock. Several of the females moved closer to her and stared in admiration at the unusually coloured mane. They had never seen hair that colour before and it fascinated them. A large warrior with dark pigment painted across his face and down his torso ushered them away with a wave of a crude club.
Unknown to Sally, it was similar to the club which had been expertly thrown at her when she was driving her stagecoach. The solid stone ball had hit the back of her head and knocked her senseless.
Sally felt like a prize hog at an auction.
Whatever their intentions were, she knew that she would be kept in the dark until it suited her captors. She looked up at the rocks that hung over the flat stone that she was tethered upon. The light of the flames were catching the cave rocks which arched over where she was being held.
Sally closed her eyes and started to quietly pray.
She was not very good at it and had learned the little she knew from her late mother. After a few moments she opened her eyes again and stared over her half-exposed breasts to where the constant drumming was coming from.
Sally lifted her head and stared toward ten seated elderly warriors beating on petrified logs. The strain of looking along her spread-eagled body became too much for Sally and she was forced to rest her head back down.
‘Where the hell are you, Iron Eyes?’ she muttered as dancing warriors started to close in on her. ‘You ain’t never around when a gal needs you.’
She blew some of her blonde strands of hair off her face in an attempt to see more, but it was useless. All she could see were the near-naked Indian braves who danced around her.
Sally tried to find strength to fight her bonds.
It was useless.
Sally was tired and had resigned herself to what she believed would prove inevitable. No matter how hard the feisty female tried to be positive, she knew that without her rifle or the help of her beloved Iron Eyes, she was doomed.
Sally had never felt fear before until this very moment and it weighed heavily on her petite form. Somehow this bunch of Indians had managed to get the better of her. They had done what she had thought impossible and transported her from her stagecoach to this place.
She had faced many daunting enemies alongside her beloved Iron Eyes, but she always had her trusty Winchester in her hands then and now she was utterly helpless. There was nothing to fend off the dancing and chanting men who had her at their mercy.
Whatever fate awaited her, it was their choice to dish out as they so desired. They held the power of life and death over her and Sally began to realize that.
A defiant smile came to her handsome features. Sally knew that she could either die crying or face it as Iron Eyes always did.
Head on.
‘Don’t you hombres know a different tune?’ Sally shouted at them. ‘That ’un is wearing mighty thin.’
If this was a game of stud poker, she told herself, the Indians held all the aces and picture cards. The deck was stacked against her.
All she had was a thin hope that a miracle might happen.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The sound of the drums had claimed another few victims with their relentless pounding. Each echoing beat sounded like nails being driven into their coffins. Delmer Holt had tended his wounded brother as best he could and then helped the weary rustler back on to his mount before throwing himself back on to his own saddle. Caleb had been nervously listening to the constant drumbeats as Delmer had finally removed the arrow shaft from Spike’s leg and had mounted long before either of his infamous siblings had risen from the sand.
The trio of outlaws had kept on riding as the sun finally set and darkness had spread across the arid terrain. Delmer led the way between the sand dunes in a vain effort to find somewhere that might offer them sanctuary.
Yet no matter how far any of the three rode, they could not outrun the sound of the beating drums. The echoing noise of clubs striking drums seemed to be everywhere in the desert as the Holt brothers forged on.
Delmer had never been in a situation like this before. He was gradually becoming less and less confident that they would ever catch up with the infamous bounty hunter, let alone kill him.
The drumming grew louder the further into the desert they rode. The brothers were starting to tire of the chase and beginning to wonder if the Indians might be luring them into a trap. Delmer slowed his mount and glanced at Spike before turning his attention to Caleb.
‘Spike’s half dead, Caleb,’ he muttered as he stared at the churned up sand before them. ‘I’m starting to worry that he might have lost way too much blood before I dug that arrow out of him.’
Caleb looked grim as he anxiously looked around the starlit dunes. He nodded in agreement.
‘We gotta get out of this damn desert while we still can, Delmer,’ he said bluntly. ‘Spike needs a doc to check out that wound. Besides, we’re almost out of water.’
Delmer rubbed the sweat off his face as he glanced at the wheel grooves in the otherwise undisturbed sand. He looked at Caleb and swallowed hard.
‘There’s gotta be a water hole out here someplace, Caleb boy,’ Delmer said. ‘That Iron Eyes and his lady friend wouldn’t be heading this deep into the desert if they didn’t know where to find water.’
‘I ain’t so sure, Delmer,’ Caleb disagreed as he strained to see anything in the darkness that surrounded them. ‘I got me a feeling that maybe they were carrying their own supply of water in that stage.’
Delmer’s expression changed. ‘I hadn’t figured on that.’
Caleb rubbed his neck as he teased his trotting horse onward through the dunes. ‘This desert is a lot bigger than I thought it was. By my reckoning if we turn back now we might just be able to get back to Diablo Creek.’
Delmer glanced back at Spike. It was clear that their brother was more dead than alive. He eased back on his reins and stopped his mount and then grabbed Spike’s bridle and halted his mount as well. Caleb circled his brothers.
‘We turning back, Delmer?’ he asked.
Before the eldest of the Holt clan could reply, a flurry of arrows buzzed through the darkness over a dune to their right. The deadly projectiles hit the sand all around the three horsemen in quick succession.
Caleb hung on to his skittish mount as it reared up and kicked its hoofs at the haunting noise.
‘It’s them damn Injuns again, Delmer,’ he screamed as he fought with his horse. ‘They’re still with us.’
‘Damn it all,’ Delmer snarled as he tried to figure out where their unseen attackers were. ‘Where are they?’
The outlaw did not have to wonder for long. The words had barely left his lips when suddenly a dozen mounted braves came thundering over a dune behind them astride their painted ponies.
Caleb’s jaw dropped as he hastily pointed at the warriors who were galloping straight at them. He had never seen anything like them. ‘Look at them critters,’ he screamed as total fear gripped him. ‘Look at them, Delmer.’
The older Holt steadied his mount.
‘I seen them,’ Delmer shouted and then whipped the tail of Spike’s mount sending the animal thundering ahead. ‘You ride with Spike, Caleb. I’ll try and fend them off.’
All three of the rustlers galloped between the high standing dunes. For a few moments it seemed that they had manage
d to leave their attackers eating their dust.
Then the truth dawned on them.
Whooping braves burst through the starlight in all their painted glory. Just the sight of the wailing braves was enough to put the fear of God into the brothers as they whipped and spurred their saddle horses in a vain attempt to outrun their pursuers. Yet unlike the trim Indian ponies, the outlaws’ far larger mounts were laden down with weaponry and saddles. The Indians were soon breathing down the necks of their hapless prey.
Delmer cocked the hammer of one of his pistols, swung around on his saddle and fired a shot. He then straightened up as a flurry of arrows narrowly missed him and embedded into the sand beside him. As he kept encouraging his beleaguered mount on, Delmer looked over his shoulder again. The sight that greeted his sore eyes sent terror surging through his body.
‘Holy Lucifer,’ Delmer cursed frantically. ‘What the hell have we ridden into?’
As Delmer chased his brothers up and over a dune, he felt a sudden chill as a flint axe hurtled within inches of his shoulder. His eyes widened as the animal beneath him galloped after his brothers. As his exhausted saddle horse reached the foot of the dune he heard the chilling sound of the charging Indians behind him.
Delmer twisted on his saddle and looked back to the top of the sandy rise just as the small band of Indians cleared the dune and came charging down the churned-up sand. The warriors held their bows and hatchets in readiness as they chased the three outlaws deeper and deeper into the starlit desert.
The eldest of the Holt boys suddenly felt his heart pounding inside his shirt. He had never been so frightened in all his days. He fired his six-shooter at the warriors who were chasing them down.
Then he saw a few of the Indians prime their bowstrings with arrows and unleash their arrows.
Mingled with the sound of their horses desperately trying to escape their attackers, the desert hummed with the noise of arrows flying through the air.
